


when the white snow falls

by blue000jay



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chronicles of Narnia Fusion, Ever - Freeform, Narnia AU, let's see if i finish this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29275140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay
Summary: Inside the wardrobe smells like mothballs and pine, a scent that lingers in his nose and clings to his fingertips as he waves his hands around while his eyes adjust. He can feel the softness of fur, a zipper here or there, and yet as he stumbles backwards and further into the deep space of the wardrobe, his head does not hit the back panel of wood. He keeps his eyes on the faintly glowing handle he just shut, and slowly everything gets a little brighter as he waits. There’s no way he will be found in here, and he backs up even more, slowly, fingers dancing behind him as he searches for the back of the closet and shuffles jackets out of his way as he moves. Stepping backwards, backwards, backwards.Something pricks his fingers, cold and spiny, and he gasps, bringing his hand up to his face and wrinkling his nose. His fingers smell like pine and there’s whiteness on them, cold and soft.Slowly, Tommy turns around. Behind him is a tree-- no, there are many trees, pine needles coated in soft white snow that fills the air with a chill.Tommy breathes out, and the fog floats from his mouth and nose like dragon fire.(Narnia AU, SBI-focused with other characters of course! Will be tagged appropriately!!)
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 92
Kudos: 188





	1. the faun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolpertingerStays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolpertingerStays/gifts).



> this was inspired based off some art that @foolocracy_ on twitter made!!!!! i thought a narnia au would be super cute-- so here it is.
> 
> dedicated to mads, my beloved.

It’s a dreadful day.

“Today is dreadful,” Tommy proclaims from his spot at the window, tracing another raindrop down the glass with one finger. The rain has been steadily coming down for hours now, and it’s no surprise he’s bored. As the youngest, it’s his job to be bored. And his job to promptly whine about being bored. As the oldest, he’s hoping Phil will be his savior here.

Unfortunately, his hopes are dashed on rocky shores below the cliffs of expectation. Phil turns a page in his book, tucks his feet more under his butt, and says, “Shame.” 

“It’s dreadful,” Tommy repeats, flicking his pointer finger against the glass. It rings, and Wilbur scowls from across the room at him. “And I’m bored. I want to go outside.”

“So you can get muddy and in trouble?” Wilbur snipes, and Tommy scowls right back at him. 

“It’s so boring here!” He complains, gesturing. “Tech and Phil are just reading.” 

“You could read too,” Phil points out, patting the couch cushion beside him. “I’ll help you with the big words.”

Tommy eyes the seat. “What’s the story?”

“It’s Greek mythology.” 

“Eugh.” Tommy wrinkles his nose. His older brothers have such a boring taste in stories-- greek mythology is so drab, and Tommy can never remember the names right, except the one named Theseus. Even then, he forgets what Theseus does-- he just knows that sometimes, Techno calls him it and Tommy shrieks because that is  _ not  _ his name. “I don’t want to read.”

“So go find something else to do,” Wilbur says, and a pen scratches on paper and leaves ink stains on his chin. The radio crackles. “Stop being a whiny baby.” 

“You all are mean,” Tommy bemoans, flopping back in the chair that he’d dragged over to the window. His head rests on the arm of it, and from here he can see Techno. Upside-down in his frame of view, nose so close to the pages that his glasses nearly touch the paper. He’s got his absent-face on, the one that means he’s miles away and can only be snapped out of it if someone physically rouses him from the words in front of him. Tommy would gladly do it, but the second he starts to move he catches Phil’s gaze in the corner of his eye. Phil, who shakes his head slowly, then sighs and moves to close his own book.

“Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s play a game.”

“Not a game,” Wilbur complains, rolling over onto his back. The paper he had been using crumples and crinkles, and Techno finally glances up. “You always come up with such boring games.”

“Dictionary puzzle is a fine game,” Techno says, the first words he’s spoken aloud in a while, and Wilbur and Tommy groan in unison.

“Not that one,” Tommy whines, finally rolling out of his seat and landing with a thump on the floor. The carpet is thick and cushioning, and so he jumps right back to his feet with no trouble and rounds his way to the couch Phil’s sitting on. He tucks his arms against it, leaning forward with a grin. “Can we play hide and seek?”

“Oh, no,” Techno mutters, and Tommy pays him no mind.

“Hm,” Phil says, appearing to think on it. Tommy opens his eyes a little wider, tips his head down, gives the barest hints of a grin, and-- “One. Two.”

“What!”

“Oh, really.” 

“Yes!” Tommy jumps, one fist in the air, and Phil’s grinning as he makes his way to his feet. All of the sudden, the stale air of the room is gone and now there’s a mad scramble to hide-- Wilbur pushing himself to his feet, Techno darting for the door, Tommy running after him in a frenzy. Phil’s voice echoes-- “four, five, six,”-- and Tommy grins, darting down the stairs.

The house they’re staying in is an old English manor, which means plenty of places to hide. Dark wooden rails line the stairs and Tommy grips it tight as he stomps down them, glancing around. He checks the radio; no room there for him to hide under it, so he moves to the curtains, which are too shallow. Then down the hall-- Wilbur appears down the other end of it, and they crash into each other when checking the curtains in this hall. Wilbur knocks him aside, neatly slotting himself behind the thick, dusty fabric with a grin.

“Come on,” Tommy hisses, and Wilbur shrugs, glasses glinting.

“I was here first,” he sing-songs, and Tommy blows a raspberry, but then Phil’s voice gets a bit louder on his numbers and he’s running down the hall again. Up a flight of stairs, glancing every which way, and then trying the first door he sees. Locked! Again, he tries another door-- this time, he’s triumphant. With a little finagling, it slips open with a creak and Tommy easily pushes himself inside, set on locking it, but something catches his attention before he can.

There’s something inside this room.

It’s large, covered with a white sheet, and the only object that he can see. The fabric drapes and covers the thing like it’s a ghost, tall and imposing and frightening.

The door shuts behind Tommy with a click, and he leans against the wood, entranced. 

It only takes him a moment to step forward, floorboards creaking under his feet as he moves toward the sheet and the piece of furniture underneath it. He can’t hear Phil anymore, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother him one bit. He’s uncovered some sort of mystery, and so now he must solve it. The sheet is cool and loose under his fingers, soft like cotton, and without any grandeur, he gently gives it a tug. It comes down and off easily, dust billowing into the air as it does and sticking in Tommy’s throat, making him sniffle a bit. It lands in a heap at his feet, and underneath it-- underneath it is a wardrobe of some sorts. It rises above him, probably twice Tommy’s height, or maybe three times. The wood is dark and sucks in the light from the one window in the room, carved designs littering every corner of the wardrobe. On the front two doors are trees, branches spread wide.

Distantly, Tommy can hear “twenty-four, twenty-five,” and he recalls what he came in here for.

The handle is cool sleek brass under his fingers, and when he tugs the door open, a few mothballs rattle out and onto the floor. He ignores them except to keep from stepping on them, lifting his foot and hoisting himself up into the mouth of the beast. It’s dark inside, but he doesn’t mind-- it’s a lovely hiding place, and so hide he will. Phil’s voice echoes and as he shuts the door behind him, seems to disappear completely.

Inside the wardrobe smells like mothballs and pine, a scent that lingers in his nose and clings to his fingertips as he waves his hands around while his eyes adjust. He can feel the softness of fur, a zipper here or there, and yet as he stumbles backwards and further into the deep space of the wardrobe, his head does not hit the back panel of wood. He keeps his eyes on the faintly glowing handle he just shut, and slowly everything gets a little brighter as he waits. There’s no way he will be found in here, and he backs up even more, slowly, fingers dancing behind him as he searches for the back of the closet and shuffles jackets out of his way as he moves. Stepping backwards, backwards, backwards.

Something pricks his fingers, cold and spiny, and he gasps, bringing his hand up to his face and wrinkling his nose. His fingers smell like pine and there’s whiteness on them, cold and soft. 

Slowly, Tommy turns around. Behind him is a tree-- no, there are many trees, pine needles coated in soft white snow that fills the air with a chill.

Tommy breathes out, and the fog floats from his mouth and nose like dragon fire.

There’s a tingle of fear in his gut, but it’s overshadowed by the excitement that’s coursing through him, pouring through his veins as he steps forward. Snow crunches under his feet and clings to the tips of his hair. He leaves the warm coats behind and instead pushes brazenly forward into a world of cold and snow. With one last glance behind himself at the brass handle of the wardrobe, he steps out into the snowfall. It’s snowing out here, and he lifts his hands and face to it, letting it settle on his cheeks and cling to his eyelashes. He lifts a hand-- he can see the spokes of snowflakes, six-sided and wonderful. He’s never seen snow like this before. The only thing he’s ever seen like it is ash, falling from the sky after a particularly bad bombing of the city he lived in with his brothers and parents before coming here.

He finds he likes snow much better than ash.

Tommy stands there for a minute, letting the chill sink into his bones and his feet sink into the ground. Then, without much preamble, he darts forward and through the trees surrounding him.

It’s  _ snow _ . Snow in a wardrobe, much less. He lets the sheer disbelief and excitement pour through him as he dances forward, snow crunching under his footsteps and leaving a trail behind him as he stumbles through it, pushing aside branches of pine and evergreen with a muted laugh. He swirls to a stop, glancing behind him. He’s still able to see the wardrobe from here-- but after a second, he turns again, sticking his tongue out and catching flakes on his tongue. With a giddy laugh, he hugs his arms around himself and traipses forward-- and something catches his eye.

A golden light. Orange in how it glows, emitting from a place a bit high up. Tommy turns toward it, arms still around himself as he unconsciously heads over toward the light and finds himself staring up at a lamppost. 

_ How odd _ , he thinks to himself, moving to the lamppost and reaching out to touch the smooth metal. It’s chilly beneath his fingers, and frost litters the surface like tendrils of icy vines, flowers curling outwards from each new bud. His fingers melt prints in the frost, and he pulls his hand away for a moment, then looks back up. He reaches back, scrapes part of it off with his nail, pinpricks of ice stabbing down his finger as he examines the white powder that lies there. 

“Oh my,” someone gasps behind him, and Tommy jumps, whirling around.

Then he jumps again, because the person who is peeking at him from behind a tree is his size, maybe smaller. A green sweater is tugged around his middle, a red scarf around his neck, and brown pants.

Wait, no, that’s not right.

His legs are brown fur tinged with white from walking through the snow. And there, hidden in the curls of brown hair on the top of his head, are two little horns.

“Who are you?” Tommy asks, whirling around the lamppost. Not to hide behind it, no, just to… put some distance between himself and this new arrival. The new arrival, who is staring at him with wide eyes and hiding similarly behind a tree.

“Who are you?” He parrots back, and Tommy wrinkles his nose. A snowflake lands on it as he does, and he lifts a hand to rub it away.

“I asked first,” Tommy says, and he watches as the sheep-boy glances around, then back at Tommy. His gaze flickers to the lamp, and then him again.

“How did you get here?” He asks curiously, and Tommy shuffles his feet in the snow, then points in the direction he had come from.

“That way,” he says. Then: “Why do you have goat legs?” 

“I’m a faun,” says the boy, looking a bit scandalized. “What are you? Some kind of beardless dwarf?”

“I am not a dwarf!” Tommy lets himself rise to his full height, straightening his shoulders and stepping out from behind the lamppost. The sheep-boy-- no, faun-- yelps, disappearing behind a tree. Tommy tips his head, the snow yet again crunching gently under his feet as he steps forward.

A second later, the faun’s head appears again, eyes wide as he stares at Tommy. “Then what are you?” He asks, and Tommy huffs.

“I’m a boy,” he says, tipping his shoulders up. “And I'm the tallest in my class, I’ll let you know.”

“A boy?” asks the faun, and there’s something in his eyes. Tommy nods, and the faun steps out from behind the tree timidly. Tommy does not move this time for fear of scaring him away, and instead stays still as he creeps closer. He can’t help but stare at his hooves, the horns that peek above his mop of brown hair. 

“Yes,” Tommy says, and they study each other closely. 

“Like a son of Adam?”

“My dad’s name is Henry--”

“Like a  _ human _ ?”

“Well… yes?” 

“Woah.” The faun’s eyes shine brightly, and as he gets closer Tommy realizes he’s taller than the other. A finger stretches out, poking him gently in the chest, and a shiver runs down his spine. “I’ve never met a human before.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Tommy boasts, chest puffing up with pride. “You could’ve met my brothers instead, and they’re boring and mean.”

“You have brothers?” The faun’s head tilts to the side, looking intrigued. “How many?”

“Three,” Tommy says, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. He wonders if this faun can do maths. “Wilbur and Techno are twins. Phil’s oldest. My name’s Tommy-- I’m the littlest.”

“Wow,” the faun says wondrously, poking Tommy’s stomach again. “Four humans.”

“Stop that!” Tommy gripes, waving his hand and batting the faun’s hand away from him. “I’m not a circus!  _ You’re _ the circus, with your furry legs.”

“Hm.” The faun lifts a hoof, then glances up at him and grins. “At least mine keep me warm. Where did you come from?”

“Well,” Tommy says, “We were playing hide and seek, and I ran upstairs to hide and found a wardrobe in the spare room--”

“Spare room?” The faun asks. “Where is that in Narnia?”

“Narnia?” Tommy glances around. “Is that where we are?”

“Well, yes,” says the faun, looking mildly perplexed. He points above them both, to the golden lamppost light. “Everything here is Narnia. From the lamppost to the mountains and the castle at Cair Paravel! Did you not learn geography?”

Tommy looks out across to where the faun is pointing, staring with mild wonder. There’s snowy hills that he can see, and beyond that, grey sky.

“Awfully big wardrobe,” he says gently, turning back to look at the faun.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then the boy tugs nervously at his scarf. 

“Do you want to come for tea?” He asks, and Tommy shivers slightly. 

“I don’t even know your name,” Tommy shoots back, and yet as the faun starts to walk past him and deeper into the pine trees, he finds himself following.

“Tubbo!” chirps the faun, and suddenly, he has a name. What a surprise. Tommy catches up to him in two strides, their shoulders bumping as they push through the trees. Snow flops off a branch, landing nearly on Tommy’s head, and he ducks. “I live out here.”

“By yourself?” Tommy asks, glancing around. The snow is still falling lightly, and Tubbo raises a hand to push aside a branch. His sleeves are too long, covering his hands and protecting them from the chill. Tommy has to tuck his own fingers under his arms, in his armpits, carefully stepping around a fallen log, covered in snow. It looks almost like a sleeping person-- if he didn’t know any better, Tommy might think it was a statue or something. 

“Mhm!” Tubbo smiles at him, and when Tommy glances back he can see their footprints next to each other, matching. “A nice beaver family helped me build a house. It’s nice and warm and I like it out here. It’s safe.”

“Safe?” Tommy asks. “From what? The bombs?”

“What are bombs?” Tubbo asks, tipping his head to look at him. “No, from the…” After a second of looking pained and sort of scared, Tubbo lowers his voice and whispers, “The White Emperor.” 

“Who’s that?” Tommy asks, and somewhere in front of them, he can see a rising column of smoke. It looks like a chimney fire, and he’s proven right when they round a corner of trees and there, sat in the middle of the woods, is a tiny, round cottage. Tubbo bounces right up to the door, which is perfectly their size, and shoves it open. Inside is dark, but warm and sheltered from the snow, and Tubbo is quick to light a lantern in the corner. 

“You don’t know who the White Emperor is?” Tubbo asks, sounding properly scandalized. Now that they’re inside, he doesn’t bother to lower his voice, and Tommy knocks some snow off of his shoes in the doorway before shutting it behind him. 

“No,” Tommy says. “Is he like the Prime Minister?” 

Tubbo fixes him in an odd little look, shadows creeping across his face as the lamplight flickers. Tommy stares back, slowly removing his hands from under his arms, and shrugs. After a moment, Tubbo shakes his head. “...you are human,” he says quietly, like he’s reminding himself. “Right.” 

Tommy scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!”

“Right, sure! Say it again like that, why don’t you?”

“I will not. It’s dangerous enough to say out loud as it is. Can you bring me a piece of firewood from the stack?” Tommy turns, snagging a piece of wood from the pile next to him, grumbling as he brings it over to Tubbo and watching carefully as the other picks up a piece of stone and metal, and then brings them together. There’s a spark-- flashing in both their eyes, and making Tommy blink, but when he clears the brightness from his lashes there’s a fire burning in the hearth that makes the place feel much more homey. He glances around-- the whole place is filled with blankets and green tones, dark earthy colors shaping the place and making it cozy. There’s a bed tucked into the corner, bits of pottery and glassware above a tin that must be a sink. There’s a comfy chair that’s clearly worn down from months of use in front of the fireplace, filled with blankets. When Tommy tips his head back and strains his neck to look, the roof is dome-like and made, apparently, of twigs and thatch. 

When he glances back down, Tubbo is sitting in front of the fire with his hooves out in front of him, letting the clumped-up snow caught like barbs in his fur melt from the heat. After a moment, Tommy joins him on the floor, sitting with his hands and feet towards the warmth. 

“You live here all alone?” He asks, and Tubbo nods.

“Yes,” he says, glancing around. “The beavers come. It’s nice though, out here. Would you like some tea?”

“Why do you keep offering me tea?” Tommy asks, wrinkling his nose. “We’re not little girls.”

“I haven’t had a visitor in a bit,” Tubbo admits, shrinking in on himself. It makes Tommy a bit more conscious of his words, and after a second, he nods.

“Okay,” he says. “But instead of tea, do you know how to make hot chocolate?”

Tubbo’s eyes sparkle. “Oh!” He says, shifting on the rug below them and shaking droplets of water off his legs. “Yes! What a good idea!” 

“I’m full of good ideas,” Tommy boasts, following Tubbo as he moves towards the tin, watching as he moves around the room. “No one ever appreciates them though.” 

“I’m appreciating this one!”

“...well, no one appreciates them except you, I suppose.” 

“Right on,” Tubbo says, looking awfully proud of himself. In his hands are two mugs-- somehow steaming hot already. 

Tommy decides not to question how Tubbo made the hot chocolate, and instead just crams himself into the armchair with him. They’re pressed up together, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, and every time either of them lift their drinks to their face their elbows jostle. It’s cozy, and for a bit neither of them speak. However, Tommy cannot stay quiet forever. 

“So,” he says, watching how Tubbo tips his head to look at him. “This is Narnia?”

“Mhm,” Tubbo says, nodding and swallowing. “It’s big. There are mountains, and songs, and history. I like the history. Although, reading it is hard.” 

“I hate history,” Tommy says, wrapping his fingers around his mug a bit more. “It’s so boring.”

“Not here!” Tubbo shuffles in the seat, jostling them both and making Tommy grumble in complaint. They both settle down again, and Tubbo grins over at him. “Do you want to hear a song about it?”

“No.” That’s a hard pass from Tommy-- although, as he stares at Tubbo, he watches his face pout a bit and… “Fine.”

“Yes!” Tubbo grins, setting his half-empty mug beside them and crawling out of the chair. He bounds over to a tilted shelf, reaching up on his tiptoes-- or hooves-- and feels around for a moment. His hand comes back, and this time, it’s clutching a piece of wood. Or, multiple pieces of wood all tied together and circular. Tubbo holds it up to his mouth and blows, gently-- there’s a soft noise that comes out of it, and Tommy stares. The music is airy and light, and Tubbo draws his mouth down and away from it after a second of blowing absently, random notes littering the room.

“It’s not singing?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo shakes his head, clambering into the chair again with Tommy. Their shoulders press together again, fur warm against the shorts Tommy is wearing, and he watches with wide eyes as Tubbo once again brings the instrument to his mouth and blows.

The song that comes out is haunting. Tommy’s not usually one for music-- that’s always been Wilbur’s thing, the twin humming and dancing and obsessed with the radio, writing his own songs and insisting on learning every instrument he could. Tommy doesn’t think Wilbur would know how to play this, however, and the song is unlike any song he’s heard before. It’s a lilting melody, one that tells a story without words, and Tommy is entranced. He sits and stares as Tubbo moves the flute around with a soft look in his eyes, recalling the patterns from memory, and there in Tommy’s mind a world grows and is expanded upon-- Narnia, named by kings of old and loved by its people. Narnia, a place with magic and creatures that Tommy has only read about. These images swirl through his mind and he sits, the fire flickering in front of both of them as Tubbo hunches his shoulders and plays faster, quicker. The melody picks up-- the notes are harried now, worn down, people crushed under the thumb of a ruler they did not ask for. An everlasting winter. Tommy can feel the chill settle over the room as Tubbo plays, eyes lidded and face less peaceful than it had been a moment before. Across the room, a candle goes out as a draft blows through. Tommy shivers.

And then it ends.

Tubbo lets the pan flute fall to his lap, the melody unfinished, and Tommy stares. They both sit there for a second, and then Tubbo puts the pan flute down and picks up his mug instead again.

“Did you like it?” He asks, and Tommy chews on the inside of his lip.

“I think I want to go home,” he says as an answer, because there’s a feeling in between his shoulder blades that is making him nervous and a bit jumpy. It’s entirely instinct, even if he does not know it himself-- Tommy likes his new friend but he’s been gone far too long. “Phil will be looking for me still, although, I’ve surely won the game of hide and seek.”

Tubbo’s face falls gently, and he twists his hands around the ceramic in his grasp. Tommy blinks. “What?” He asks, and Tubbo takes a deep breath.

“You can’t go home,” he says.

“Well, why not?” Tommy asks. “The wardrobe can’t be far--”

Tubbo bursts into tears.

Tommy’s first thought is  _ oh no. _ Tommy’s second thought is a very naughty word that he shall not be repeating to anyone, not even Wilbur (who he learnt it from) because it would get him in awful trouble. His third thought isn’t much of a thought at all-- it’s an action. He leans forward, puts a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, and pats. 

“Are you alright?” He asks after a second, feeling very awkward but also kind of sad. Tubbo is crying and Tommy quite likes Tubbo, so he feels bad for making him upset. “I just-- I need to go home--”

“You can’t,” Tubbo bleats, looking up at him from under tear-clumpy eyelashes, face a bit blotchy. Tommy pats his shoulder again in sympathy. “I’m not supposed to let you.” 

“What for?” Tommy asks. “You’ve been nice so far.”

“It’s the--” Tubbo’s voice gets quiet and he trails off, sniffles. Tommy pats. A moment later, he leans forward and whispers gently. “It’s the White Emperor. Schlatt.” Tubbo’s gaze flits to the door, then back to Tommy, and all of the sudden Tommy feels like he has to act quite grown-up in this moment. Tubbo is smaller than him and Tommy is angry with whoever this emperor is for making Tubbo so upset. “He said that if any humans were to be seen in Narnia,” Tubbo explains, voice shaky and wet, “that we were supposed to bring them to the palace. He’s made it winter all the time. You saw the snow. It makes everything cold and damp and not-nice, even if it’s pretty. And you’re-- you’re a human, but you’re so nice.” 

Tommy’s not sold on his own kindness, but Tubbo has been a fun friend so far and he doesn’t want to upset him, so he nods. “Why does the White Emperor want to see the humans?” He asks, and Tubbo sniffles again. The silence says enough, so Tommy doesn’t push it.

“I don’t want to bring you to see him,” Tubbo says, lifting his head and bumping it gently against Tommy’s shoulder. “I like you.” 

“So don’t bring me!” Tommy exclaims, shifting and pushing himself out of the chair. He turns, plopping his hands on Tubbo’s shoulders and making him look up, making him meet his gaze. “Screw the old man!”

Tubbo gasps. Tommy grins.

“Who said you have to listen to him?” He asks. “I’m good at being sneaky. I always win when Techno and I play soldiers.” He doesn’t, but Tubbo doesn’t need to know that. “We can just go back the way we came and no one will ever know I was here.”

“But I will,” Tubbo says, still tearful. “I might get in trouble.”

“Are you going to tell on yourself?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo shakes his head. “See! Right then. We go back and it’s fine.”

“...you’re sure?” Tubbo asks, lifting a hand and wiping at his face. Tommy nods.

“I’m sure,” he says. Tubbo takes this and mulls over it in his head, clearly thinking as he sits there and stares Tommy right back in the face. His eyes and cheeks are red, but after a second he lifts his hand again and uses the green sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the rest of his tears.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll show you the way home.”

Tommy hadn’t been aware he had been afraid-- that was how scared he had been, the fright of not being able to leave rushing through him. He had to get back, get back to Phil and Wilbur and Tech and show them this wonderful place. Or at least tell them about it. It would be worth it, even if the White Emperor did not like humans for some sort of odd reason. Tommy grins lightly as his shoulders relax and Tubbo grins right back, an uneasy but happy smile.

They leave Tubbo’s snow-covered home in order to pad through the snow once more. The fall is light as they go, the sun setting in the distance and making the whole forest like a dream. Tommy is tired, and he thinks Tubbo is too-- they both end up in a yawning war as they make their way towards the lamppost, the orange glow serving as the calling card to Tommy’s entrance to this wonderful world. As they get closer to it, Tommy reaches out and holds Tubbo’s hand, squeezing their fingers together. Once they’ve reached it, he hesitates to let go.

“Thank you for not telling the emperor,” he says after a second, standing under the lamppost. Tubbo’s hair is covered in small white flecks. Tommy is sure his hair looks the same. Tubbo grins.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Thank you for visiting. I don’t get many visitors.” 

“Maybe I’ll come again,” Tommy says, swinging their hands. “I’ll bring Phil and--”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Tubbo juts in. “Not safe.”

“Right,” Tommy says, staring at Tubbo out of the corner of his eye. Tubbo is doing the same. He thinks they both know that they are being silly-- Tommy wants to come back, wants to see Tubbo again. “Well then. Goodbye.”

He wrenches his grip from Tubbo’s, watching the faun flounder for a moment in the snow, then backs up towards the treeline where he had emerged from. 

“Goodbye!” Tubbo calls out, waving his hand and hopping up and down. “Delightful!”

Tommy grins, and waves a hand of his own, high up in the sky with snowflakes kissing his fingertips. Fingertips that are cold, dreadfully cold, and that he tucks under his arms as he turns and follows the faint path towards a dark spot in the trees. He pushes past the pine needles, past the clumps of snow that fall onto his head and shoulders, coming to a line of fur coats. He shoves past those, fingers digging into their soft bodies as he shoves through them and the chill disappears. His shoulders already feel wet from the chill, and then his hands find the doors of the wardrobe.

He puts his hands firmly on dark wooden backs of them, light from the keyhole illuminating the enclosed space ever so slightly. He can smell mothballs and pine. 

Tommy pushes the doors back open. 


	2. the emperor

“I’m back!”

Tommy shoves through the open doors of the wardrobe, stumbling out as the snow fades from his shoulders and the warmth of the house sets in. He’s excited-- he’s been gone for so long, he’s surely won the game and also probably caused trouble. He’s used to causing trouble, however, so he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself out of the room with the wardrobe, sprinting down the hall and shouting. “I’m back! I’m back!” 

“Shhh!” Wilbur’s head pops out from the curtains, and wait, that’s not right. “You’re being loud! Shut up!” Tommy’s been gone for ages in the back of the wardrobe. Why would Wilbur be hiding?

“I’m back,” he says again, confusion muddling his voice as Phil rounds a corner and locks eyes. Wilbur huffs, rolling his own, and Phil makes his way down the few steps and into the hall where they’re standing.

“Well now you’ve gone and ruined it,” Wilbur says sharply, crossing his arms as Phil comes to a stop in front of Tommy, glancing between the two.

“I’m not sure you two remembered the rules right,” Phil says, mildly amused as he stares at them both. “You’re supposed to be hiding.”

“But… weren’t you wondering I was?” Tommy asks, and Wilbur and Phil share a look before shaking their heads. There are footsteps, and Techno rounds the corner a moment later.

“That’s the point,” Wilbur says as Techno bumps into his shoulder, fingers interlocking on instinct. Tommy’s own hands are balled into fists at his side, staring between his three older brothers with confusion. “He was seeking you.”

“Does this mean I win?” Techno asks, and Phil reaches out to hit him on the shoulder lightly.

“But I was gone for hours,” Tommy says, and all three of their attention is suddenly back on him. He lifts up his foot-- the underside is dry, surprisingly, so he checks his sweater and tries to find some snow, or a pine needle or something. He can still taste the hot chocolate he and Tubbo had shared-- yet it seems like no time had passed at all outside the wardrobe. “I--”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Phil asks. “Tommy, if you don’t want to play anymore, that’s alright--”

“No!” Tommy whirls around, grabbing Phil’s hand and insistently tugging. Like dominoes they fall, following after him as he stubbornly drags them to the room with the wardrobe. He points. “I was in here!” He says, staring at the doors. He was sure he’d left them open before, and yet now, they’re shut firmly tight. Techno gives him an odd look before stepping forward, grasping the handles and pulling them open firmly. Tommy doesn’t hesitate to shove him aside and crawl in, triumphantly shoving the coats and furs to the side, eyes vying for a glimpse of the snow and cold and trees--

And all he finds is a solid wooden backing. He stands there for a moment, then knocks on it, then turns and pushes his way out of the wardrobe.

“That’s not right!” He says, running around the side of the furniture and staring behind it. The space is empty, if not dusty. He hears shuffling as the others investigate, coats being moved to the side, and Techno knocks on the back of the thing. “I was gone for hours! There was a place-- a faun-- his name was Tubbo, we were in the woods and it was winter! He said it was called Narnia!” As he comes around the corner, he catches Phil and Techno exchanging a look, Wilbur snuffling with laughter off in the corner. 

“It’s only been a minute or two,” Phil says after a second. “There’s nothing here.” 

“It was here!” Tommy insists, staring at the wardrobe, like glaring at it might bring it back. “I swear! Just in the back, all you had to do was walk through!” 

“One game at a time, Tom,” Techno says, catching a look from Wilbur. “Not all of us have your imagination.” Tommy feels terribly, horribly bad as his older brothers all exchange glances, then move to leave the room-- they’re definitely not supposed to be in here, Tommy knows, but it doesn’t stop him from being upset. They won’t believe him just because he’s the youngest. He knows this, and it infuriates him to no end.

“I wasn’t imagining!” He insists, following them and catching Phil’s sleeve by the door. “It was real!”

“That’s enough,” Techno says gently, the way he can only be with Tommy. “It was a nice story.”

“It’s not a story!” Tommy says, tugging more insistently. “I wouldn’t lie about this! About Tubbo!” 

Wilbur’s voice makes him whip his head around, eyes wide. “Well, I believe you,” he says, and Phil sighs, long and heavy behind Tommy.

“Really?” He asks. “Wil--”

“Yeah,” Wilbur continues. And then, sarcasm dripping through his words, “Of course. Didn’t you see the football field in the bathroom cupboards upstairs?” Tommy’s heart crumples, and without meaning to his face crumples in tandem. He can hardly see through the terribly betrayed tears, but he can hear just fine as his brothers start to argue.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, a heaving sigh. “You’re just making it worse.” 

“What?” Wilbur asks, smile dropping from his face. “Was just a joke.”

“You need to learn to grow up,” Phil insists, a hand taking Tommy’s and holding it. “Not play into this stuff.” 

“Shut up!” Wilbur says, storming forward and making Tommy shrink behind Phil as he does. It’s not unusual; ever since they’d arrived at the manor, Wilbur had been arguing with Phil almost nonstop. The only times of peacefulness were at night, or if Techno intervened before it turned into a screaming match. This time is not as lucky, it seems, as Techno hangs back and just observes. Wilbur stands on his tippy toes, poking his face into Phil’s and shoving a finger in his chest. “You’re not dad, and you never will be. So don’t try and act all mature and important! We don’t have to listen to you!”

Phil is silent as Wilbur storms off, a raging storm of fury and malice painted across his face. Tommy is still shrunken behind Phil, a hand clasped in his, and Techno just leans against the wall and sighs.

“That went swell,” he mutters, and Phil rolls his eyes.

“Piss off,” he mutters right back, and Techno pushes off the wall, disappearing through the swinging door that Wilbur had just left behind. It’s quiet for a second, and then Tommy glances towards the wardrobe.

“It really was there,” he says quietly, and Phil heaves another great sigh, like he might be able to blow away all their problems with the force of his breath. He turns, letting go off Tommy’s hand and instead putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Techno was right,” he says. “That’s enough.”

Tommy’s left behind in the room with the wardrobe as Phil turns to go. Maybe to apologize, maybe to not. Tommy stands there and turns to look back at the wardrobe, tucking his arms around himself and chewing on his lip harshly as he stares at the dark wood. The only chill he feels isn’t from Narnia’s snow-- it’s from a much emptier place in his stomach.

\----

The storm has yet to abate that night. The rain pounds against the windows as Phil tucks them all in, one-by-one. When he comes to say goodnight to Wilbur, Wilbur just turns over and hides his face. He’s still angry, still upset, the storm howling outside matching the one roiling in his gut. He waits, listening to the wind roar outside their cool bedroom, the flickering of the candles around the room casting dark shadows against the walls. Even after a bit, those go out, leaving the room in silence. The floorboards creak as Phil tucks himself back into bed from where he’d got up to snuff them, and then it’s quiet.

The rain patters against the panes of glass. The wind roars. Somewhere outside, a tree branch creaks and snaps with the force of it. Wilbur lies in bed, toes curled up and on his side as he stares widely into the dark bedroom wall he’s facing. 

Tommy had been silly all afternoon about that stupid wardrobe, and the place inside it. Wilbur didn’t believe him for one second. Tommy was always insisting on making up silly stories in order to pass the time, whether it be a scheme to get a few pennies from their eldest brother or to get Wilbur to play music for him, or give him extra access to the radio. Tommy’s schemes always ended up with him gaining something from them-- which is why this particular story stuck out to Wilbur as odd. Tommy had nothing to gain from a story about a faun called Tubbo and a magical land called Narnia (except maybe a trip to the loony bin). So why had he come up with it in the first place?

Across the room, Techno rolls over, breath huffing from him in a sigh. Wilbur’s twin-- he can recognize the sound of his breathing without even thinking about it. They’d slept in the same bed until coming here to this large, untouched manor in the countryside. There’s enough space here for separate beds, so of course they took the chance for it.

Wilbur hates it. It takes hours for him to fall asleep on his own.

Outside, a storm rages. It’ll quiet by the time morning comes, but for now, Wilbur lays in bed and listens to the rattle of the windows and the  _ pat pat pat _ of rain. 

Floorboards creak.

He’s up like a shot, sitting upright in bed and shoving his feet into his slippers before he can stop himself. Because someone is walking down the hall just outside his bedroom, pausing at each of their doors before continuing on. A light flickers gently under the doorframe-- a candle by the looks of it. Wilbur’s no fool-- the footsteps are too light to be Phil or the housekeeper, too cautious to be anyone else but Tommy. 

So he shoves his feet in his slippers, eyes on the door as the footsteps pass by it. Across the room, Techno flops an arm over himself in his sleep and lets out a snorting snuffle.

“Pig,” Wilbur mutters-- he doesn’t truly mean it, it’s just a joke. Wilbur babbles in his sleep. Techno sounds like a pig in his. But he makes sure to keep quiet as he throws on his robe (it’s yellow, a soft present last Christmas, before the war had reached their doorsteps. They all had gotten one-- Phil in green, Techno in pink, Tommy in red.) And then he’s creeping out the bedroom, stepping into the hall silently and taking care not to let the floorboards creak.

In front of him, candlelight wavers, giving him a clear path to follow.

They cross the house quietly, and then finally, Wilbur knows where they’re going. The door to the room with the wardrobe in it is half-open, candlelight pouring from inside. Wilbur pauses for a moment before entering.

Sat in the middle of the floor is the candle, balanced precariously on the wooden floorboards. Wilbur skirts it, aiming for the wardrobe instead. In the shimmering light of the flame, shadows being cast jerkily, it’s much more intimidating than it had been that afternoon. The doors are open, jackets and furs clearly pushed aside by little hands.

Wilbur breaks the silence.

“Tommy,” he whispers into the wardrobe. “Come out. There’s nothing there.”

No response. Not even a complaint, or a shriek from Tommy being startled. Wilbur had been quiet enough that he knew Tommy wouldn’t have heard him coming-- and yet there’s not one peep from inside. He huffs a sigh, reaching out and shuffling the coats around. 

“Tommy,” he repeats. “Toms, it’s late. I’m going to tell Phil on you.” 

Still nothing. Wilbur hoists a foot up, planting it on the edge of the wardrobe and hauling himself inside. He grins, thinking of ways to get Tommy to reveal himself, and settles on a perfect one.

“Hope you’re not afraid of the dark,” he calls out, sing-song in his tone as his hand shuffles behind him and catches on the handle. He tugs the door to the wardrobe shut, grinning the whole time as darkness envelops the space. He reaches out blindly, hands hitting warm fur and pushing them aside in order to seek out his little brother. “Come out come out, wherever you are.”

Silence. Wilbur frowns, turning around in the dark, eyes open wide. There’s a glint of light from what he’s assuming is the candle outside, but even then, it’s a bit too pale to be candlelight. He steps forward, fingers outstretched, searching for the back of the closet.

His hands find no such thing. Instead, the wardrobe stretches onwards. He swallows, stepping forward farther. “Tommy?”

Wilbur’s foot catches on something in the dark-- a coat, a branch, something, and he sprawls forward, tripping. For a second he thinks he’s going to hit his head, smack it against the wood of the wardrobe, but instead he falls forward and plants his face right into a pile of snow.

“Fuck!” He squawks, since apparently no one is around to hear him. Cold wetness seeps into his collar and face and he plants his hands in it, pushing himself up and spitting out what little bits had gotten into his mouth. It takes a second for him to get his bearings, wiping away the snow from his eyes as he glances up, pushing himself to his knees. 

Pine trees and snow line the horizon in front of him, and Wilbur stares.

So Tommy hadn’t made it up.

He pushes himself to his feet, stumbling slightly on shaky knees. Before his is an expanse of white snow, cold enough that he has to wrap his robe more firmly around his body, cold enough that his breath fogs up his glasses when he breathes out and makes him rub them clean again. He brushes the remaining snow off his face, taking a few hesitant steps forward into the trees and peering around him.

Icicles drop down around him, snow settling and crunching below his feet as he takes more steps further. There are footsteps in front of him, and he follows the prints forward. They must be Tommy’s, based on the size of the foot and the fact they also trail back to the wardrobe’s entrance. He exhales, glancing around and then catching sight of them again. He follows, eyes on the ground as he tracks them forward.

And nearly bonks his head again, the base of a structure coming into view. Wilbur whips his eyes upwards, staring curiously at the lamppost in the center of the trees. It’s glowing-- orange in the cold light of the night.

“Weird,” he mutters, then glances around. He brings his hands to his mouth, cupping his fingers around and shouts: “Tommy!”

No answer. Just silence, the snow taking his words and absorbing them.

He tries again. “Tommy!!! Are you here?” 

Still nothing. Wilbur steps forward and around the lamppost, reaching out to hold onto it and feeling the chill under his fingers. The metal is cool under his fingers and makes him shiver as he whirls around in a circle around the post, glancing every which way. He can’t seem to pick Tommy’s footprints back up, nor see an outline of him through the trees. 

Wilbur narrows his eyes, glances around, and picks a direction that looks the most traveled. The least amount of underbrush, the most pathlike of it all. He sets off in that direction, cupping his chilly fingers around his mouth once again in order to call out Tommy’s name as he goes.

It’s not easy. The snow is light and fluffy but fairly deep, and Wilbur is unprepared. His shoes soak through in no time. His robe becomes damp and heavy with snow, and he tucks his arms around himself as he walks to fight off some of the chill. Whatever Tommy had been going on about-- a magical land, fauns, spells-- is clearly bollocks, because Wilbur is as miserable and wet as he would’ve been in the real world. He makes sure to go in a straight line as he walks away from the lamppost-- the last thing he wants to do is get lost.

In front of him, bushes rise up in a line. Hesitantly, Wilbur turns. They go along either way, and so after a moment he pushes through, stumbling onto what seems to be a packed-down roadway of snow--

“Woah!!!” And just like if he’d walked into the streets of London, Wilbur is suddenly facing…. Traffic? He stumbles backwards and away as two horses skid to a stop, a light carriage behind them-- fear courses through him, pumping through his heart and making his whole body seize up as he tumbles into the snow. His glasses are launched in one direction, robe getting even more wet and damp than before.

“What are you doing?” A voice shouts as he rights himself, shoving his hands into the snow and pushing himself up. Above him (just barely stopped in time) are two pure-white horses, rearing up and nickering gently. He scrambles backwards and away, hands searching in the snow for his glasses and stammering out words.

“I-- I’m sorry, I didn’t know-- there was--” 

“Are you stupid?” The voice rises, and when Wilbur finally shoves his glasses back on and rises to his feet from his knees, there’s a young man in front of him. Wilbur’s reminded of the pictures of angels in the books back home; the young man has a pair of wings, wrapped around his shoulders and head, pale yellow things that stand out compared to the rest of the white world around them. He’s got a warm-looking blue jacket on, but the knife in his hand is cold and sharp against the thin sleep shirt Wilbur’s got on. “What’s your business?”

“I--” Wilbur’s hands shoot up in the air, like the police dramas he heard about on the radio. “I haven’t done anything wrong, I--”

“What is it now, Q?” Someone calls from the carriage behind the horses, a voice that’s just as cold and deadly as the winter around them. 

“Make him stop!” Wilbur shouts, as the boy with the wings presses the tip of his knife harder into Wilbur’s chest. Everything is fuzzy from the wet on his glasses, but he can make out the glint of steel and feel it too, and it’s scary. Everything is scary. Tommy had said this place was nice, but Wilbur’s not convinced right now at all.

“How dare you address the emperor,” says the boy with the knife, stepping forward. “Don’t worry. I’ll gladly end your little existence so he’s not troubled--” and the knife pulls back, poised in the air--

“Wait.” That same voice from before, the one Wilbur thinks is coming from the emperor based on what the boy said. It’s still cold, but there’s a twinge of curiosity now to it, and Wilbur glances over. So does the boy, arm still raised high and ready to slash down.

Standing in the snow at the foot of the carriage is a man with ram horns. His hair is as pale as the snow around them, eyes darker than London had been during the bombings. Wilbur is struck for a moment, shuffling his feet in the snow as they stand there. His clothing is fine-- an overcoat with fur, clearly dressed for warmth, and pale pants and snow boots that are also ready for a tromp through the fluff. There’s a crown on his head, at least, it looks to be a crown. In reality, it’s icicles, the points sharp and deadly as they stand straight up through the man’s hair and form a semi-circle that screams  _ danger  _ and _ run. _ Despite the gut feeling, Wilbur does not.

The man, no, emperor, leans against the carriage, arms folding across his chest. In one hand, a cigarette is lit, ash falling from the tip like snow from the sky. “What’s your name?” He asks, looking both incredibly bored and incredibly interested all at once. Wilbur’s not sure how he’s managing it.

“..Wilbur,” Wilbur says, and the man with the knife lowers his arm, stows the knife away on his hip, and takes a step back. 

“And how, Wilbur, did you come to be here?” The man-- the emperor, asks. Wilbur swallows, glancing around at the snow as the man with wings takes a step back, then two, then falls into the shadow of the man with horns.

“I’m-- I’m not sure, I was just following my little brother--” He starts to explain, and a hand is waved in front of his face, cutting him off sharply.

“Your brother? How many?” The emperor asks, and Wilbur stumbles over his words again, even though they’re his pride and joy. Phil has his kindness. Techno has his books. Tommy has his tears, and Wilbur has his words. Ironic that they’re failing him now.

“Well, Tommy’s the only one who’s been here before, but there are four of us--” he starts to explain again.

“Four?” The emperor asks, and something falls over his face. Something dark, something, perhaps, that could even be called malevolent. Unfortunately, brave Wilbur does not see it-- he’s too busy peering to the side, trying to get a glimpse into the trees and shivering as he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. His nose wrinkles in displeasure while thinking about them. “Phil and Techno and Tommy. Tommy-- he said he’d met some faun, named Tubbo in the wardrobe. I didn’t believe him, neither did Phil or--” 

He’s cut off  _ again _ . It’s starting to piss Wilbur off. “You look cold,” the emperor says. 

“What?”

“You look cold. Come sit. Have a drag,” he offers, holding out the cigarette in his hands. Wilbur regards it for a second, then shakes his head slowly. He’s had one before, back in Brighton, before the war, sharing it with Techno after stealing it from his father-- only to get caught immediately and shouted at. He doesn’t want to think about his father and mother anymore, so he turns his gaze away from the cigarette.

“I’m… not sure I’d like one,” he says, and the emperor scoffs lightly, tossing his cloak in a way that clearly indicates what he thinks about that. “Sorry?”

“Oh, that’s alright. Hot drink?” He asks instead.

Wilbur stands there for a second, shivering in his pajamas, and finally gives in.

“Uhm. Sure?” 

With a malicious grin, the emperor waves his hand and at the feet of Wilbur the snow crackles. It shimmers, changing shape and whirling upwards, shifting into something solid and silver. Snowflakes crack and fall off the edges, revealing intricate metal work, and inside the surface fills with something hot and steaming. Wilbur stares at it, stares at the smoke swirling off the top of the drink, then leans down and picks it up. It warms his hands, warms his very core, and when he gently sips the top it’s… hot chocolate. Perfectly made, just the right amount of sweetness, and not too hot. It sits warm and happy in his belly, and he stares down into the chalice with wonder. 

Magic is real, and he’s drinking it. It makes his head giddy.

“Now then,” says the emperor. “Come on, sit. Get warm. Can’t have the future king of Narnia freezing to death.”

“The what?” Wilbur asks, blinking in surprise and shuffling forwards anyways. He sips again at the hot chocolate, blinking and licking his lips slightly. The emperor helps him up into the carriage with one hand, tossing his furry cape over Wilbur’s head, and laughs when he fights his way back out. The fur is impossibly warm-- must be more magic, he thinks, and Wilbur doesn’t fight back the smile that creeps over his face. The emperor laughs.

“Future king of Narnia,” he says, as though it’s dumb that Wilbur’s asking again. “But right, you’re not from here.” His smile is sickly sweet, and Wilbur smiles right back. King? 

“But aren’t you… emperor?” He asks, leaning into the cloak and pressing his back against the back of the carriage. It’s cool against his back, a contrast to the warm fur, and his head bonks slightly. Above them, a top shifts into shape, drawing up and concealing them from the rest of the world. It’s quiet, warm, and nice. “How could I be king?”

“Well, I’m going to die one day,” the emperor says. “All good rulers raise a replacement. And I think that you shall be mine.”

“Why me?” Wilbur asks, because he’s young and naive but he’s not stupid. “I’m just a kid. Human. You just met me. And I can’t do magic.”

“You don’t need to do magic!” The emperor throws an arm out, snow sprinkling from his fingers and out across the front of the back seat. It spills out into a map, and Wilbur watches as the snowflakes spell out names, places, he watches as tiny creatures walk into imaginary battles. It’s amazing, and he’s drawn into the story as it’s being told without words. “All you have to do is be commanding to those lesser than you. We’ve only just met, yes, but I can see it in you. I bet you know of things lesser than you, yes?”

Wilbur studies the snow, watches a faceless ruler fall to a knife in the back. “Not lesser,” he rationalizes. “Just different.”

Something flickers across the emperor’s face, lip twitching upwards. He inhales, letting out a gentle breath that spreads like dragon fire inside the carriage and dispels the map that Wilbur had been studying.

“Fine,” he says. “Different. Commanding of those who are different. Like… your siblings.”

“Right,” Wilbur says, wrinkling his nose again. The cup is warm again under his fingers and he grips it. “Them.”

“Oh,” the emperor says, and then, “are you not happy with them, right now?”

“What gave you that impression?” Wilbur asks, snapping his head to the side and meeting the emperor’s sharp gaze. He holds it for a moment, icy blue eyes meeting warm brown, and then there’s a long moment where a smile creeps over both of their faces. The emperor laughs, throwing his head back, the jewelry on his horns jingling lightly as they are tossed back. Wilbur feels a smile cross his own face, but he hides it carefully and brings the chalice of hot chocolate to his lips. 

“All good kings need companions,” the emperor says, gaze flicking to the dark shape standing just outside the carriage. The man with wings smiles, then looks away again, eyes shifting. He turns back to Wilbur, a hand plopping onto the younger boy’s shoulder. “Your brothers would make good ones, wouldn’t they?”

Wilbur considers this. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe.”

“Then why don’t you bring them?” The emperor asks, eyes sharp and knowing as he stares at Wilbur. 

“Phil and Techno won’t believe me,” Wilbur says carefully. “And I don’t know how the wardrobe works. It was normal before.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” the emperor says, throwing a hand into the air. “I know you can do it.”

“I’m not--”

“I know you can do it.” Those eyes, previously knowing, are now sharp. Wilbur shuts his mouth, staring at the emperor, who gives him a tight smile before patting his shoulder gently. He whirls his hand, the cigarette from before coming back into existence as he lifts it to his lips, takes a long inhale, and then lets out a puff of smoke. Cringing, Wilbur leans away. “I think it’s time for you to go,” says the emperor. “You’ll be king one day, but you’re not yet ready.”

“I can be king,” Wilbur says stubbornly. He narrows his eyes-- he knows he’d be a wonderful king if he had the chance. He’s read all about King Arthur and the likes-- he imagines a sword in the palm of his hand, staring down at it and narrowing his eyes. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay. I can be a king.”

“I know you can,” says the emperor, “but not just yet. You’re too young. Too alone. You need your brothers to help you learn. Bring them to me, and I’ll make you all the most powerful rulers this land has ever seen.” 

“All of us?” Wilbur asks, glancing back up. The emperor reaches out, takes the chalice from his grip, and tosses it to the side. As it hits the snow, it shatters into millions of tiny shards of ice. Wilbur’s gaze snaps back from the snow to the emperor’s face as he taps his cheek, catching his attention with long, icy nails. 

“All of you,” says the emperor. “I know you could be amazing.”

“I am amazing,” Wilbur says stubbornly, and the emperor just smirks, clearly stifling back a laugh.

“Prove yourself, then,” he says, leaning back, lounging against the cool blue seats and reaching out to pull his cloak back and away from Wilbur’s shoulders. He waves a hand, clearly gesturing for him to get out, and Wilbur shivers gently as he stands up and watches the stairs on the carriage’s side float down. More magic. It’s incredible, and his footsteps are careful as he shifts down them. “Convince your brothers of this place’s existence. Bring them to me, and let me teach you all what it means to be in control.”

“I will,” Wilbur challenges right back, tucking his arms around himself and glaring at the emperor, who just looks amused. His smile is easy and loose, and Wilbur feels a twinge of distrust in his stomach-- but beyond that, a larger feeling. He needs to prove himself. He needs to show Phil and Techno he’s not what they think he is-- even Tommy, too.

“If you insist,” says the emperor, and then he kicks the back of the driver’s seat with one long, black-booted foot. The man in the front jumps to attention, swinging up onto the seat and grabbing the reins, flicking them carefully. “Goodbye, Wilbur, son of Adam.” 

And then they’re gone, horses nickering gently as the carriage disappears into the distance. Wilbur’s left in the smoke, only a challenge and footprints in the snow testament to this interaction. He tucks his arms around himself as he stands there, shivering slightly now that he’s without the furs, and lets out a puff of air. It fogs his glasses. He needs to find Tommy-- he needs to get them all back here, but there’s doubt in his mind. There’s no way Phil and Techno would believe this preposterous story, even though they’ve both been. It dawns on Wilbur that this also could be a dream, however vivid it seems now. He squats, reaching down, shoving his fingers into the snow, and counts. Once he gets to sixty-three he stops, tugging red and chilly fingers back from the snow and tucking them away again. Perhaps not a dream.

After some much-needed introspection, he turns. Only to have another surprise, as Tommy tumbles out of the snowy bushes and right into him. They both shout, sprawling into the expanse of white as Tommy lands on top, Wilbur letting his head fall into the snow and mourning the second loss of his glasses for a brief moment.

“Get off me, twat,” he says, pushing lightly and rolling over. Tommy falls off with an ‘oof’, but pops up, eyes shining.

“I told you it was real!” Are the first words out of his mouth. Of course they are. WIlbur fumbles around the area for a moment, and then his glasses are being slapped into his palm courtesy of his little brother. Annoyance twinges. “I told you all so! Now look! We’re here! You’re here!” A pause, and Wilbur shoves the frames onto his face and wipes away the dampness that had accumulated on them. Tommy’s face, when it comes into focus, is mildly suspicious. “....you’re here,” he repeats. “What were you doing?”

“What did it look like I was doing?” Wilbur spits, pushing himself to his feet. He’s properly soaked. “Exploring. This place is freezing. I want to go home.”

“Right!” Tommy scrambles to his feet as well. “We need to get Phil and Techno! We need to show them!!”

Wilbur hardly has a moment to respond before Tommy’s grasping his hand, tugging him along through the bushes and snow once more. He traces a path Wilbur cannot seem to find, darting through the woods and tugging him along, but then he sees it-- the lamppost, shining and glowing as orange as it had been only a little bit before. From there, getting home is easy. Wilbur worms his hand out of Tommy’s as they both push through the jackets and furs, Wilbur grateful for the warmth of the manor as they both sprint through the halls, Tommy whooping wildly until Wilbur shushes him. After all, it’s not just them in the house. They get to Phil’s room, then Wilbur’s and Tommy’s rushing inwards and snagging sheets, tugging wildly. 

“Come on!” He whisper-shouts, a bleary Phil sitting up in bed. “Come on!!!!”

“What’s going on?” Phil asks, letting Tommy tug him out of bed by the hand. Techno’s already at the door, clutching a blanket and rubbing his eyes. “Tommy?”

“The wardrobe!” Tommy insists, dragging him down the hall. Wilbur trails behind, doubt flooding through him even though the metal of his glasses is still cold. The emperor’s words float through his mind-- a challenge, the rest of them, a king-- and yet, as they enter the room with the wardrobe, Techno trailing behind and sleepy, Phil being dragged by Tommy, he feels doubt.

The back of the wardrobe is wood.

“This isn’t funny, Tommy,” Phil says, clearly stifling a yawn as he knocks on the back. Tommy looks distraught-- no, more than that. He looks devastated, almost more so than when they’d learned they were leaving Brighton to come out into the countryside and away from their parents. “It’s the middle of the night. You can’t keep dragging us in here to look at your imaginations.”

“But it wasn’t imaginary!” Tommy insists, stomping his foot, a frown plastered on his face. “I was there! I met Tubbo again! We talked!! And Wilbur was there too! Although. He didn’t visit Tubbo with me-- what  _ were  _ you doing, Wilbur?” 

Now the attention is on Wilbur. He thinks to himself,  _ dreadful _ .

Doubt and shame flood through him, colder than the snow of the place he’d just been. He glances down at his dry pajamas, dry robe, dry slippers, and thinks of the icy eyes of the emperor. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Maybe--

“Wilbur?” Phil prompts, folding his arms and looking very cross.

“I wasn’t actually,” he says a moment later, breaking the silence. “I just-- you know how Tommy is. I’m sorry, Phil, I shouldn’t have encouraged him.” 

Tommy’s face screws up. It’s red. Wilbur stares, and Phil heaves a sigh. Wilbur’s mouth moves without his permission, excuses pouring out of him.

“I thought it’d be a bit funny if I went along with it. You know--” he says, and before he can get another word out, Tommy’s pushing past him and sending him back against the wall with the force of it. His face is screwed up tight, tears leaking down his cheeks as he goes, and Phil’s the first to follow. He gives Wilbur only a look, and Techno’s the one who scolds him this time.

“Lovely,” he says, sarcasm dripping. Wilbur throws his arms in the air, only for Techno’s hands to be firm on his shoulders and shove him backwards. He stumbles, scowling, both at his twin and the wardrobe. “Look at what you’ve done.” 

And then Techno’s gone too, out the swinging door and into the hall where Wilbur can hear sniffling, faint, and the soft tones of Phil’s voice consoling. 

He glares at the wardrobe. The emperor’s voice rings through him-- but he ignores it for now, swiping the still-lit candle from the floor and storming out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh ohhh wilbur's in troubleeeeeeeee. :)

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, be sure to leave a kudos/comment!!!! <3 much love!


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